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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27637931">Ownership enough</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coldwintersnight/pseuds/Coldwintersnight'>Coldwintersnight</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Doctor Who &amp; Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Canon Divergence, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Possible Character Death, Post-Episode: s10e12 The Doctor Falls, Redemption, Self-Sacrifice, Suicidal Thoughts, The master meets himself, Timey-Wimey, Torture, but don't tell him I said that, don't mess with timelines to fix your love life at home, he's almost nice, the master's development takes a weird turn, there's the suggestion that at one point he would have killed the doctor, very brief mention of tenrose, which i don't actually believe btw</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 18:41:34</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,822</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27637931</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coldwintersnight/pseuds/Coldwintersnight</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The Master knew that regeneration was a risky process, and he could very well end up with a face from his past. But really, this was just <em>mockery</em>.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jack Harkness/The Master, Tenth Doctor/The Master (Simm)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>24</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Ownership enough</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I wrote this about a year ago, the first time I'd written a doctor who fic since age 7, and it's since been edited beyond recognition but it still feels weird to finally put it out in the world.  It starts right after series 10 but the Master's characterisation is more in line with his s3/EoT self before I take him in a new direction.</p><p>Some clarification: It is implied that the events of the fic could lead to a main character's death but it's not shown/confirmed. Also, the torture scene is between the Master and Jack and the torture itself isn't very detailed.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The feeling was familiar. The glittering of gold across his fingertips. The tingling in his temples as his brain prepared to rewire and rewrite itself. His body. His life. Crumbling to dust which clung to itself, forming new shapes. New bones. New skin. New hair. New man.</p><p>It was strange, regeneration. Unlike anything else he'd ever experienced. Impossible to describe to anyone who wasn't a time lord. An exhilaration bordering on discomfort, as his cells tried to fit in as much activity as they could before they became obsolete. The feeling of slipping away. Like death, he supposed, except no, death had been worse. Because death was not followed by a triumphant resurgence of life- not immediately anyway. There was no fire born inside of him, lashing into the world: a reminder of the destruction he could cause just by surviving. There had been only darkness, and the drumming which had still plagued him then, ticking his way into oblivion before it finally followed the world's drift into nothingness. It had been the last thing that kept him tethered, chasing him even into hell as he tried to find refuge in extinction. It had drowned out the sound of the Doctor's tears.</p><p>Thinking of that was no use. Not now. The fear had long since gone and all that he had left to disperse was the memory. That wasn't so easy. It had, after all, been a memorable day. What he was struggling to remember, as it happened, was why he was regenerating <em>now</em>. The events of the past few hours were collapsing into a dark blur in the centre of his mind. He knew he'd crawled back to this ship, too weak to stand before he'd been granted this body's last hurrah of vitality, though from where he could not say. </p><p>There had been a girl. Of that much he was certain. Had she... what? Shot him? Stabbed him? What exactly was wrong with him? His hands moved to where spikes of pain were breaking through the dancing numbness that signaled the proximity of his regeneration. They found blood, crackling beneath his fingers as the regeneration energy healed his skin: a precursor to ripping it apart. It was hard to tell what had even caused the fast-disappearing wound. Had the girl done it? Always the women.</p><p>Or maybe it had been someone else. He had so many enemies. </p><p>Gold crept upwards into his vision, brushing away all his worries. Brushing away everything. Light exploded around his consciousness and his mouth opened in a silent, anguished scream, the intensity suddenly unbearable. This regeneration was more violent than most, the internal hints of betrayal he felt towards someone he could no longer recall imprinting themselves onto the ship's walls with two slightly smoking scars.</p><p>His subconscious preference for intensity over longevity did not fail him now. It was over quickly. He stretched each muscle of his hand tentatively, feeling for faults, watching to ensure that his body obeyed his mind. At first glance, it seemed that nothing much had changed; the fingers perhaps a little longer than the ones he'd previously sported, but still definitively masculine. All his limbs were still attached and his head could certainly be referred to in the singular. He ran his new hand over his new face, feeling each new contour with a dull curiosity. The hair, too, was a little longer. He liked the way it curled around his fingers, silky and comforting, not least because it reminded him of another time, when his old fingers had run through someone else's similarly soft hair. Had run over this other person's face, perhaps a tad uncaring in it's explorations, but tender when required-</p><p>He tore his mind away. That time was gone- quite literally- and he had more important things to devote himself to. Getting away, for one thing. A new life beckoned. The last had ended unsatisfactorily, with cracks in his memory where victory should have been. Had he been victorious, in the end? There was nothing to say that he hadn't given as good as he'd gotten. Regardless, he was prepared to leave the ambiguity behind him.</p><p>The ship had been programmed to respond only to his touch, which in hindsight may have been overly optimistic, but it wouldn't take long to force it to recognise this new body. Still, the work was a touch arduous, even for him. Especially as a post-regenerative exhaustion began to descend over him, further clouding his mind. If only he could have kept a physical copy of his old body, just for the fingerprints. Or did only the Doctor have that privilege?</p><p>Not for the first time, he wondered where his dead body had ended up. It might be interesting to take a look. It was a morbid thought, and one which he rather enjoyed. The idea that the Doctor may have preserved him was thrilling, if not a little invasive. Unlikely, though. The Doctor had probably just burned it. How tragically, unnecessarily romantic of him. </p><p>Finally, the ship's controls clicked and whirred into life, tearing him away from a dreamy, distracted train of thought and allowing him to set a course for nowhere in particular. He fell asleep practically where he stood.</p><p>…</p><p> </p><p>The view when he awoke was deep and black and beautiful in it's triviality, the stars distant and unenticing. He wondered how much time had passed; whether it had been enough to grant him a complete recovery. He felt tired, his mind slow and uncooperative, but otherwise healthy. Sane. </p><p>Or perhaps not.</p><p>Because the face he'd just seen was impossible. So impossible that his mind had bypassed shock, slipping straight to disinterest because he refused to entertain, even for a second, the idea that he had been right. His mind had never really been kind to him and this was no exception. But he really felt as if he'd seen him, just for a second. The Doctor, presumably transplanted from the memories he was consorting with earlier into whichever part of his brain produces visual hallucinations. A gift to wake up to. He shook his head, forced a laugh through his teeth, and thought of other things. And while his thoughts danced jovially, his eyes avoided returning to where he'd seen him for perhaps a little too long.</p><p>The face flashed into view again, this time peeking at him from one of the screens displaying oxygen levels and he whirled round, letting irrationality take hold in the heat of the moment, convinced the Doctor would be standing behind him. And he was, in a way.</p><p>It was undeniable that this was the Doctor, and he felt his spirits peculiarly dampened by the knowledge that he wasn't here in person. It was a projection of sorts, trapped by the lines of the ship. Probably in place to scold him for some misdemeanor, though he had no idea when the ship would have been available for his hijacking. He stared at it, waiting for it to spark into patronising life. The Doctor stared back at him. Right back at him. </p><p>The only movement in the whole room was a lock of the Doctor's hair sliding away from the rest to fall over his face. That, and the flicker of the Master's eyes as a shift of colour in his peripheral vision distracted him. A lock of his own hair. He lifted a hand to fix it, but it never reached his ear.</p><p>The Doctor was copying the movement. </p><p>Ah.</p><p>Not a projection then. A reflection.</p><p><em>No</em>.</p><p>He refused to allow himself to believe it. And yet his instincts rebelled against his orders, urging on the angry pounding of his heart and the shaking of his hands. He rubbed his eyes furiously in a last desperate attempt to banish this phantom to the realms of trickery and self-deception. It was useless. His touch betrayed him now, the curves and edges beneath his skin mocking him with their familiarity. How many times had he run his fingers over those cheekbones? That jaw? He could hear the Doctor in every ragged breath he took.</p><p>It disgusted him to the point of physical revulsion, his stomach- or maybe that should be the Doctor's stomach?- curling in on itself. He doubled over, one hand clutching at the smooth, unyielding wall to steady himself. He snarled into the floor, a deep growl from the back of his throat. It was a sound he didn't recognise, mingled in with the colourful inventory of words and sighs that already belonged to the Doctor. That was good. That was his. A sense of rage and violence that was unique to the Master. The Doctor need not corrupt all of him. </p><p>But he'd gotten closer than he'd ever been before, his essence wriggling inside his body, deteriorating who the Master really was. It would be so much easier if this really had been the Doctor's doing. Some pathetic, sentimental plan to highlight their connection in an irreversible way. That would make some sort of twisted sense, aligning with the way they were: two people moving in parallel but opposite directions, the gap between them bridged by lost opportunities and last attempts. Everything the Doctor did to him was forgivable. This was not. Because he had done this to himself.</p><p>He wanted to rip the skin from his skull. He wanted to break his mind into dripping pieces, scrabble amongst them for the treacherous cells that had inflicted this punishment on him. Rid himself of them forever. </p><p>His eyes found the Doctor's- no, his own- again and he tried to hold their gaze, acclimatising himself. They didn't suit him. They were too soft, too prone to innocence. This was a subtle and poetic cruelty, and he'd never really been one for poetry. What had he been trying to tell himself? Any hint of guilt or reconciliation was too far fetched. He paused suddenly, his erratic thoughts suspended as if they held their breath. He exhaled and the floodgates of his mind opened, drenching him in possibilities. If he could force his reflexive, useless horror to the back of his mind and look at this objectively, it may be one of the most promising misfortunes to ever befall him.</p><p>He wondered briefly if the Doctor had changed his face yet, before dismissing the thought as inconsequential. They were time travellers, after all. There was a Doctor out there who hadn't changed his face, and one who had. One who had died long ago, and one who hadn't yet left Gallifrey. And one who'd be staring back at him every time he glanced at a darkened window or into a still lake. That was the one who would grin amicably at his enemies before they fell beneath his vengeance, the cup of tea he'd offered in the spirit of friendship falling from their fingers. Yes, he could have some fun with this. </p><p>-</p><p>It felt decidedly wrong to search for a suit that resembled the Doctor's; like slipping into someone else's skin, except  he supposed he'd accomplished that already. Nevertheless, the promise of a highly satisfying pay off had goaded him into it and he found himself with the fabric gripped between his fingers. He ran a hand over the pinstripes affectionately. This was <em>not</em> the Doctor's suit. This was his disguise. An accessory to execution.</p><p>In any case, he'd arrived on Earth at an unfortunate time. Far enough in the future that all the enemies he'd made thus far would have died long ago, without having the good grace to send him an invitation. All except one, that is. </p><p>Torchwood had really gone downhill since he'd last seen it. The site it had once occupied was now a slab of nondescript concrete jutting into the bay and the new headquarters- it didn't take him long to track it down- hardly lived up to its predecessor. It seemed a miracle that the warehouse was standing at all, but then again, he wasn't here to critique the architecture. He was here for Captain Jack Harkness.</p><p>The security measures were easy to evade, so it came as a complete surprise to dear old Jack to turn from his inspection of some alien gadget and see him standing there. </p><p>"Doctor!" There was such genuine warmth in that smile, and the love with which he opened his arms to him was unconditional. </p><p>"Jack." He mimicked the grin and the enthusiasm, letting himself be carried away into a hug that seemed to last far longer than necessary.</p><p>"I've missed you," Jack muttered into his shoulder.</p><p>"I've missed you too."</p><p>"Yeah?" He pulled back to admire him, eyes grazing every inch of his face, but he couldn't see what was right in front of him. "You should pop round more often. You've missed a lot."</p><p>"So I see. You've redecorated."</p><p>"Had to. Explosions and what not. You like it?"</p><p>"Yeah."</p><p>"Well…" He sighed, exuberant, a boyish joy plastered all over his face. "You want some coffee?"</p><p>"I'll make it."</p><p>"No, that's-"</p><p>"I insist," he smiled easily and Jack seemed to melt into every word he said. "I'd like a look around the new place."</p><p>"Fine, fine, be my guest." He released his grip on his shoulders. "Hey, promise you won't confiscate anything?"</p><p>"Wouldn't dream of it." </p><p>He returned a few minutes later with two piping hot cups. Jack waited on one of the sofas, hands on his chin, leaning eagerly forwards. His eyes continued to linger on his face as he took the cup, sipping it slowly.</p><p>"So," the Master began as he sat down opposite him. "Any chance of us being disturbed?"</p><p>A pained expression crossed Jack's face. "No… No team at the moment. Lost them a few months ago."</p><p>"Ah," A pause, stretching on a little too long before he remembered. "I'm sorry."</p><p>"That's immortality for you…" He grimaced and the Master tried his best to look sympathetic. "Anyway! How have you been?"</p><p>"Good, yeah. Same old life."</p><p>Jack frowned, eyes drifting around the room before he focussed on the Master, squinting slightly. "And Donna?"</p><p>"Brilliant," he said, and Jack's head hit the table.</p><p>It took half an hour for the sedative to wear off, time which the Master spent pacing the base happily- after he'd displayed Jack's comatose form correctly of course- inspecting various objects and discarding them when they turned out to be the usual space junk. He found Jack's vortex manipulator in the process of an attempted repair, finished the job and pocketed it. Cheap and nasty time travel, but it would serve his purposes for now.</p><p>The melody of shifting chains alerted him to his prisoner's awakening. Jack's gradual discovery that he was trapped, every limb shackled to the wall behind him, was blissful to behold and he savoured every flicker of emotion in the confusion of his face.</p><p>"Uh," His tongue darted across his lips as he stared at the man in front of him, not quite managing, or not quite wanting, to realise that this was not his friend. "You know I'm not necessarily opposed to this, but I really think we should be discussing safe words-"</p><p>"Save it. I'm not the Doctor."</p><p>Jack's head fell forwards, more in defeat than shock. "Who are you then?" He spoke slowly, saying what was expected of him although he had likely already guessed.</p><p>"Oh, you know who I am." He stepped lightly forwards, buzzing with so much energy that it really was difficult not to burst out laughing. He was in his element now. This was what the face was for. His hand fiddled with the top button of Jack's shirt. He'd stripped away the coat already, but left the rest. He valued a touch of the personal and the intimacy between him and Jack had always been breathtaking. Perhaps it was because they hated each other so very much. As he exposed a triangle of pale skin, he treated the recipient of his ministrations to his trademark smirk. "I'm the Master." He earned a tremble from the skin beneath his fingertips, but nothing more substantial. No matter. He could wait.</p><p>"I meant it when I said I missed you," he murmured as he worked his methodical way down the shirt. "I have missed this. I could fall asleep to your screams. Did you miss me, too?"</p><p>"Go to hell."</p><p>The Master laughed. "Good to see you haven't lost your charm." He undid the last button and opened Jack's shirt with a flourish: an artist unveiling a new canvas. He nodded appreciatively. "You realise I don't <em>want</em> to have to do this." The fervour with which he tucked the shirt out of the way, fingers brushing his skin, betrayed the lie. "I'd much rather kill you, but that's not how you do things, is it? This is the best I can do. It's your own fault, really. Now, you must have something in this place that's not completely useless." He retraced his steps to a piece of technology that had caught his attention earlier. A slender metal rod with a row of buttons at one end. He pressed one experimentally and the tip exploded in a frenzy of electricity. It crackled in the air around him even after he'd lifted his finger and the tremours reached inside his bones. "Powerful." Awe lifted his heart. "Would you like me to use this?" Jack obviously knew more about the device than he did, the muscles in his chest standing out as they tensed, arms straining against their chains. His head shook in mute horror. "No? You're sure?" </p><p>"No." The anger in his voice couldn't quite hide the fear. It took a lot of pain to frighten Jack Harkness like that; he was so used to it by now. "You'd kill me."</p><p>The Master frowned. Jack did have a point. He was so excited, so desperate for action that he didn't think he had the patience to wait while Jack resurrected himself. "You see any alternative?"</p><p>Jack swallowed. "There's a box under my bed. Just… take your pick." The Master raised an eyebrow, revelling in this turn of events. This willing participation.</p><p>In the end, there wasn't much to actually pick from. Jack had a sizable collection, but most of it was dishearteningly vanilla. There were one or two items which could stand in as torture devices, and there really was a particular charm about Jack asking him to use them. He lifted a whip from the bottom of the box and gave it a few test flicks. The sound was crisp and nostalgic, and it felt good in his hand.</p><p>Jack didn't react as he strolled back over, although the dip in his shoulders could perhaps have been interpreted as relief. The Master held up the whip. "And I thought you said you didn't miss me."</p><p>"I haven't used it."</p><p>"No?"</p><p>"It came in a set." </p><p>The Master laughed at that, and it came out a little warmer than he'd intended, almost disrupting the mood. He cleared his throat hurriedly, and stepped closer again. "If it helps, you can pretend it's him." Jack blanched, turning his face away. "No? Then next time you see him, you can think of me." A finger trailed deliciously over Jack's cheek. It really was a shame that that bit in particular had to be a lie, but Jack didn't know that, and the grief on his face could still be appreciated now. With that wonderful image in his mind, the Master stepped back and got to work.</p><p>The first stroke landed well. Jack winced and the Master smiled and inside his mind something changed. The rush of endorphins didn't quite reach him, their well worn path inexplicably dammed. He hit him again. And again. Equally fruitless. His pleasure seemed to seep away further with each stroke, and even Jack's whimpers failed to excite him. Indeed, his own chest seemed to smart with each red welt he created on Jack's. This was true perversion. He was turning more and more into a parody of himself and he had no control over it. He lashed out harder, hoping to jumpstart something inside him. Jack cried out properly for the first time, and it made him want to stop. But he'd be betraying himself, and Jack in a way, if he did that. And it wasn't that this felt <em>wrong</em>, just distinctly not right. He wasn't squeamish, exactly. He hadn't suddenly become <em>good</em>. Just apathetic. A few minutes passed, and he was sure Jack could feel the difference too. Humiliation and frustration burned inside him, uncurling his fingers. The whip fell to the floor. Jack's eyes flickered open at the sound, but all he could have seen was his torturer reaching into his coat before death claimed him again. The screwdriver severed the chains next and his body slumped to the floor. </p><p>The Master sat down heavily beside him. "Sorry, Jack. Not quite like old times." He ran his fingers through the dead man's hair. It was easy to talk to a corpse. The dead and demented, those were his companions. "I'd been so looking forward to this. It wasn't your fault. You did well." He rubbed the back of Jack's head, like one would pet a dog. "It'll be different with Martha. She doesn't have your special requirements. I can just kill her and be done with it. That'll be good, right?" He wondered if Jack would remember anything when he came back to life, or if the retcon he'd slipped into his coffee with the sedative had done its job already. It had been administered reluctantly- he'd wanted the evening to be memorable for both of them- but he was grateful for it now. Inner turmoil could only be enjoyed in private. No witnesses. "I'll be off then." </p><p>Back in the ship he was able to connect the vortex manipulator to the steering systems, creating a rudimentary time machine. It wouldn't be completely precise, so the number of years he'd let Martha live after their encounter was more lottery than choice. He hoped it would be few. When the ship shuddered to a stop he was relieved to see the display read 2010. The next time he saw that year, he promised himself, it would be on her gravestone.</p><p>He didn't kill Martha Jones. </p><p>He got as far as her doorstep, and through it, right into her arms.  He sat in her living room while her mother poured them tea. She was cheerful and boisterous and, to his great dismay, actually likable at times. He didn't decide not to kill her. He just didn't. He thought about it, daydreams of blood filling his head and he was delighted to find that they came with no secret disapproval. But then Martha said something, about work or her family, and he'd snap back to the present. That was admittedly peculiar: the divide between his thoughts and his actions. He was used to such daydreams being mere previews for what would soon come to pass in reality. Now he felt unwilling to uproot them from his imagination.</p><p>He spoke to her husband too, when he showed up. Mickey: a name he recognised. Mickey Smith. Mickey Mouse. Mickey the Idiot. Mickey Smith, defending the Earth. On the Valiant, when he and the Doctor had had little else to do but talk, he'd spoken of him; often and highly. It seemed the Master was the anomaly in a room of people who'd saved the world.</p><p>There had been something else though, some other twist in the Doctor's stories, which he admittedly hadn't always listened to in full. But irritation found space in his memory. He remembered how marvellous he'd found the idea of finding these prizes of the Doctor's, parading them before him like the soldiers he'd turned them into before shooting them down like the animals they were. It hadn't been possible though; they were safe from his perverse ambitions. Safe in a parallel universe. Except Mickey was now clearly here, well within his reach if he chose to extend it. Under his guise of the Doctor, he couldn't question it and any hints prodding the conversation in that direction went unheeded. He wondered who else could have returned with the idiotic, heroic Mickey. It really shouldn't have bothered him. The Doctor was welcome to his petty infatuations and if Rose Tyler had returned to sooth his pathetically broken heart, then that was hardly the greatest of his concerns. The thought that that was a situation which could be artistically exploited with his new face was nothing more than a brief amusement. </p><p>He had no real reason for keeping Martha and Mickey alive; no devious, convoluted plan. But instinct tapped incessantly at his brain as if he did. He knew that a worthwhile scheme lurked somewhere in the dark recesses of his mind; that familiar thrum of adrenaline kept sparkling through his veins, giving him hope. He just couldn't quite grasp it, nails skittering off the edge every time he got close. He just had to trust that he knew, on a subconscious level, what he was doing. He had always tended to stray closer to impulse than reason anyway, and keeping them alive felt right.</p><p>As he left, he thanked Francine for the tea with an ingratiating warmth that she did not return. The indication of friendship was an exaggeration, a mockery. That, at least, he could still enjoy.</p><p>-</p><p>He sauntered back into his ship, threw his jacket over the chair with a disturbingly Doctor-like nonchalance, reached for the controls, and realised that he didn't have the slightest idea what he intended to do next. He'd exhausted the possibilities Earth had to offer. His prey had failed him. There were, of course, many planets out there that he'd never tried his hand at conquering, but how long would it last? How long did it ever last? The prospect of the Doctor showing up to engage him in battles of wits and armies had lost its tantalising allure. He wouldn't be able to stand the laughter and the pity that would follow. </p><p>He could travel for a while; wait for his old habits to catch up with this new body. Then he could return, triumphant, and the chaos he would wreak would be sung of in legends... It felt remarkably like surrender. Surrender to the plea the Doctor had made so many years before. <em>With a mind like that, we could travel the stars</em>. Perhaps if he submitted, the boredom would shock him back to himself. </p><p>He didn't know where he wanted to be, but he knew that it wasn't a suburban London street in 2010. In the end, he gave the ship free reign of the skies, giving it loose coordinates and letting it deposit him anywhere it fancied. It was a cheap model, already out of date at the time he'd stolen it and the planet had hardly been more than an underdeveloped backwater anyway. It was no TARDIS; no living, physic being. Although, given where it chose to take him, it may as well have been.</p><p>He stepped out into a garden, commonplace enough until he recognised the house it was attached to. He could even have told you the name of the shade of the curtains. They were Lucy's favourite colour: a striking red. Not too dissimilar to blood, he'd remarked, and she'd leaned into his shoulder like a cat. He hadn't been here since he'd left for Downing Street. But he was there now. He could sense it. </p><p>He didn't need to sense anything. He could have just turned round. The Master was leaning against the doorframe of the ship's entrance, framed by a blue glow from inside.</p><p>"Leaving so soon, Doctor? I don't think so." The voice sounded different, not as strong and commanding as it had done when he'd been the one using it. "Spaceship in my back garden. Had to be you." He patted the hull. "Didn't think they had technology this advanced at the end of the universe."</p><p>"I'm not-"</p><p>"I think it's better we continue this inside." Before he could protest, he found his arm twisted behind his back, something poking against the flesh of his side. "Laser screwdriver. Who'd have sonic?" He let himself be marched through familiar corridors, not trusting himself to not give him a rather nasty scar if he put up a fight. This may even be good for him. A reminder of the Master in his prime. Once in his old office the door was locked, the screwdriver discarded, and his breath forced from him as he was shoved against the wall.</p><p>"Kind of you to drop in like this. Saves me the trouble of having to go looking. And I was getting so tired of waiting for you to turn up." </p><p>"Get off me," he snarled, pushing the future Prime Minister aside. "I'm not who you think I am. I'm not the Doctor."</p><p>"Don't lie to me. Don't you dare." His hands returned instantly, firm against his future self's chest, feeling the rhythm of a double heartbeat. "You're a time lord. And as you said yourself," His voice became high pitched; a poor imitation. "We're the only two left!"</p><p>He batted his assailant off long enough to reach inside his jacket pocket, feeling for his own screwdriver. Perhaps this was an easier way to tell him. A way without words. Without having to spit up the humiliating confession.</p><p>The Master's eyes alighted on the second screwdriver, squinting initially in confusion. The cogs rasped against each other in his mind, pulling back the curtain of blissful uncertainty to reveal what must have been the vilest picture he'd ever seen, judging by the hardening of his glare and the repulsed curl of his lip. His knuckles became points of shaking white as he gripped the not-Doctor's lapels. The monstrosity in question grimaced. He wanted to shake his past self, to yell in his face- <em>I'm me!</em> Or- <em>I'm you! You can't be disgusted with me! You never have been before.</em> Of course, he was used to a healthy level of internal conflict, but to show it so openly seemed somehow scandalous. That was it though, wasn't it? The problem wasn't that he didn't know who he was, but that he did. That was exactly what caused the disgust.</p><p>"<em>Him?</em>" His face was close- too close- and the anger burned through his eyes. "Of all the sodding bastards- why him?"</p><p>"I don't know!" The sting of the Master's hand across his cheek made him wince and the wide-mouthed, watery-eyed expression he knew from experience was so enticing was broken by a frown. This wasn't right. This wasn't his place. "It wasn't a fucking choice, alright?"</p><p>He saw the hands that used to be his rise for another assault and raised his own instinctively but somehow he was on the floor, carpet rough against his face, the toe of a shoe- his goddamn shoe; he remembered buying it- pressed into his neck. His hands felt weak as he battered fruitlessly at it, or maybe it was just the angle. He was so unaccustomed to fighting like this: from beneath. </p><p>"What happened? How low did you fall to end up like this?" An extra stab of pressure emphasised his point. "Can't have been all plain sailing- well, it never is, but <em>this</em>?" His fluttering attempts at resistance must have become irritating because the Master released his neck, trapping his hand beneath the heel instead. "What was it, hm? What went wrong?"</p><p>"Everything!" He spoke through gritted teeth, face contorting in anger at his treatment and pain from the throbbing in his hand. He hoped the anger covered the pain enough. "You mess up everything, you idiot. You've got the world beneath you and they all praise him like a god: the man you thought you'd degraded beyond recognition." He had to speak between gasps of agonised breath, his words doing nothing to appease his tormentor. "And even your wife is whispering his name but if you think <em>that's</em> betrayal, just wait-" His revelation was drowned by a scream as the Master shifted his weight, and then the pressure was gone and he could curl his injured hand into his chest in peace.</p><p>"That's enough." He leaned down, dragging him up with fists in his suit and his hair until he was slumped against the wall, then settled delicately beside him. His voice was gruff, but not angry, and as he continued to speak it took on that tone which he knew so well- just not from this side. Somewhere between coaxing and plain manipulative, except it was all just for fun because he knew he could make practically anyone do practically anything instantly if he wanted to: no teasing persuasion or coercion necessary. It felt so skin-crawlingly peculiar from this side. "It's alright. You've told me all I need to know. It's simple really. It's all the doctor's fault. He did this to you." He took the weary glare as a yes. "Always is, isn't it? That's easily fixed." He turned his head to meet eyes that were so much like his detested, beloved Doctor's, staring into them for so long that perhaps he'd forgotten that they weren't. His tongue flicked across his bottom lip and the new Master, the Master who felt displaced and wounded and just dreadfully tired, looked away. "After all these years, we're going to kill the Doctor."</p><p>His gaze immediately returned, finding passion and fury and a sick anticipation staring back at him. The thought had always been a tempting one; something to fuel his fantasies, but no more than that. Never more than that. "Don't be stupid. We both know you're not going to do that."</p><p>"We do?" His eyebrows rose. "That's funny. Because it's exactly what I'm going to do."</p><p>"You're not even going to remember this."</p><p>"No," he admitted, perfectly amicable. "No, I won't. Not yet anyway. I'm going to wait a long, long time to do this." He flexed his hand, forming a fist and releasing it with a sigh. "But it'll be worth it to see his blood soak into the ground. And if I get it wrong and he doesn't <em>die</em>, as such, I'll get another round. As many as it takes to exhaust his regenerations- he must be wearing thin by now. Maybe I'll get it wrong on purpose. I don't know. How <em>are</em> you going to do it?"</p><p>"Stop it. You know I won't."</p><p>"He's fucked you up a lot, hasn't he?" His hand grabbed his jaw, twisting his head. Examining him, as if the compassion, or love, or whatever it was he feared the Doctor had infected him with- whatever the Doctor <em>had</em> infected him with, by the looks of things- had left physical scarring. "But you're still you. You haven't changed that much, except, well-" He slapped his cheek lazily, grinning at the slight flinch. "You can still hear…" His fingers tapped at his temple; that infernal beat.</p><p>"No," he interrupted. "Gone now."</p><p>"<em>Gone</em>?" That startled him. The facade cracked for a second, just long enough for a shred of unfiltered hope to slip through before he smoothed himself out again, trying to convince himself that his only reaction had been mild surprise. "Since when?"</p><p>"Since…" <em>Since you risked your life to save the Doctor. Since you were hurled back into the time war, lost and alone, a one man army against everything, without even the pathetic sanctuary of humanity to fall back on</em>. Perhaps it would be better for the Doctor to die now. Spare him everything that came after his death. Or perhaps he should have died on that day, as he'd been so sure he would. A martyr in his last moments. How poetic. How distasteful. The Doctor should have just shot him. But then he wouldn't have been able to save him and they'd be right back where they started. So many possible timelines, none better than the last. The Doctor dies. He dies. The Doctor dies. He dies- no, he lives. Lives through it all again. Lives and ends up here again, contemplating killing the Doctor again. It's a spiral and he was falling, and he couldn't see any way out. Couldn't even see the bottom.</p><p>He glared into the eyes before him, so old and so familiar, eyes which screamed at him that they had the solution: a horrible, sickening solution, but it was more than that. It was the <em>only</em> solution. He saw for the first time the extent of the conflict and despair the Doctor must surely have recognised. Hatred and glee at the thought of the only other time lord left dying at his hands.</p><p>"Since when?"</p><p>He swallowed. "You'll find out."</p><p>He gripped his hand again, nails pressed into the grooves the edge of his heel had made. He could barely suppress a cry and he couldn't help thinking how lucky he was to have his silence, how much worse the Master's anger would be if he had confessed to the ultimate sin of loving the Doctor.</p><p>"Soon? Tell me." His voice was urgent, a touch past the constraints of self control and perhaps he needed more than just prophecy. Perhaps he needed to be told that everything would be okay.</p><p>"Soon enough." Sympathy prodded at him. A glimpse of relief after centuries of torment; he knew how much that meant to him. He couldn't deny him that. "Just a little over a year, for you."</p><p>He nodded slowly, eyes squeezed shut. Savouring this revelation before he lost it, no doubt. Gradually he returned to the present and his eyes, once he'd opened them, were no softer. "It doesn't change anything. You still have to kill him."</p><p>"Why?"</p><p>"A world beneath me…" he quoted. "Doesn't that sound good? I'm not losing it, not to him. And I will, if I let him live. I'll lose everything. You're proof of that."</p><p>Oh, how he'd changed; it was becoming frighteningly clear to him, now that the epiphany had been forced upon him by dilemmas and necessity. He'd hidden himself away behind unspeakable violence and a merciless quest for power for so long that he'd failed, or refused, to properly acknowledge it when those defences had dropped away. For once, he didn't want to control or destroy anything. It was a heavy sort of redemption, though, fuelled not by a surge of righteousness or empathy but the simple, devastating knowledge of how it all would end. With defeat and exile and isolation. The power had been worth everything: the risks and the hatred of everyone who'd ever cared for him. But was it worth the powerlessness that came after? Once, perhaps, but not always. Not now. It was unnerving, watching the man in front of him, who wanted nothing but mayhem and destruction. Even if it meant damaging his own timeline, perhaps irreparably, for the chance to kill a man who wasn't really even his enemy at all. He knew how it felt: exhilarating, carrying him along on a river of blood so it felt as though he didn't even have to try; cruelty came effortlessly. And when the Doctor offered companionship he'd dismiss it out of principle, not even considering the possibility because nothing, nothing at all, could be better than the way he did things. And this is where that would lead him. And he realised he'd gotten it the wrong way round, because anything would be better than this.</p><p>When had that changed? On the Valiant? After his resurrection? After his regeneration, even? </p><p>They made an odd pair. One Master who wanted power above all else. Another Master, who didn't know what he wanted anymore; just what he'd stopped wanting. Twin desperations burned across each face in unison. One sought to destroy the only thing that could possibly save him, by whatever means necessary; the other sought to salvage something from the wreck he'd made of his travels across the universe. It was too late. Neither of them were satisfied. Neither of them would ever be satisfied. Resignedly, he made his decision. It was simple, in the end. There was only one real way out.</p><p>"You're going to do it, aren't you?" the Master insisted, perhaps noticing the hardening of resolve in his eyes. His own features were caught in that perpetual smug grin. "You're going to save the both of us."</p><p>"Yeah."</p><p>-</p><p>Finding the Doctor was easy, once he arrived. He was drawn to him like a beacon. He spotted the flapping coat from across the square and darted back into the shadows, his heart thudding so loudly in his ears that it felt almost as though the drums had returned. It was the first time he'd seen the Doctor since <em>becoming</em> him. Discomfort clung to him. It felt too strange. After all, he'd begun to think of this body as <em>his</em>. The reminder that it wasn't awoke old grievances and a surge of loathing rippled through him, though he couldn't tell who it was directed towards: the Doctor, or the man who'd stolen his face. For the first time, he could really, unabashedly see himself in the Doctor and the Doctor in him. It wasn't just the face of course; that would be far too superficial. But he couldn't deny that the change had opened new windows in his understanding of the two of them: windows that he'd seen before, but hadn't found the courage to pull the curtains back from. He wished he had time to explore this development in more detail. To dissect the Doctor and himself in turn and figure out where they converged and, more importantly, where they differed. To rediscover himself in the negative spaces. But that wasn't what he was here for.</p><p>So he continued to watch. Before long a screen flickered into life and his own face was displayed: confident, arrogant and completely ignorant. He watched his call for a doctor- hardly subtle- with the gloomy air of one who mourns their past oblivion. Watched the effect it had on the doctor the country supposedly needed. The fear it elicited. </p><p>As he followed the Doctor and his irritating disciples, he wondered if he could see himself through the CCTV cameras he'd used to keep track of his prey. He pictured his confusion, the fear that would be bold across his mind if not his face at the thought that omniscience had eluded him. The vision awarded him a grim little grin. Revenge for the hand.</p><p>Eventually, he caught the Doctor alone. It was time to change history, or mess it up in unforeseen ways. He didn't know whether he'd be around long enough to find out. Didn't know if it even mattered, really. He stepped out of the shadows. </p><p>The Doctor froze as their paths crossed and, instinctively, the Master found himself reflecting his stance. "What? What are you doing here?" The other time lord wasn't exactly welcoming, but at least he knew he wasn't going to end up on the floor this time.</p><p>"Shut up. We don't have long." </p><p>He didn't listen. Of course not, he never did. "Are you my past or my future?"</p><p>"I'm from your future."</p><p>"Well, that's good. Least I have one," he grinned foolishly, seemingly unaware of time shifting beneath his feet, branching and convulsing with every word they spoke.</p><p>"Just listen, will you? I-"</p><p>"Doctor?" Martha's voice could be heard from just around the corner and he cursed because this was all happening far too quickly. He could neither reconsider nor enjoy the moment. His last moment, perhaps, and once again it was sacrifice.</p><p>"I need to tell you something." He grabbed the Doctor's hand: identical but unblemished. He tried to pull away but the Master just clung tighter. "A year from now, don't let her get the gun, ok? Don't let Lucy get the gun. You'll understand at the time."</p><p>"Lucy? Who-"</p><p>He sighed, exasperated. If only he'd thought it through. There was so much more that should have been said and he was wasting every breath. "My- The Master's wife."</p><p>"No, I don't get it." He was visibly agitated. "There has to be more to it. I won't remember this."</p><p>"Oh, I think you will." He dropped his hand suddenly, as if the Doctor could feel the deceit through his touch. He couldn't know yet. He wouldn't know ever, if all went to plan. This would be the last time they'd meet, these two versions of them at least. The thought made him want to scream. How ironic. The only time he had been willing to accept the Doctor's invitation and fate- or rather, his own subconscious mind- had made it impossible. He must have hated himself so much, without even knowing it, to do this to himself.</p><p>It wasn't so bad, in the grand scheme of things. It was the end for him, but they had so much more ahead of them. A second chance to do things right. To do things together. That was all he had left. The Master would just have to deal with the initial humiliation of being imprisoned on board the same ship that had both secured and ended his reign. Because the only other option was becoming him- disenchanted and dislocated- and that was something he vowed never to repeat.</p><p>He'd wanted to own the universe, and all he owned now was the chance to change everything. It was a pitiful prize compared to the universe; he wasn't so far gone that he couldn't see that. But it was all he had. Maybe the Doctor was right. Maybe seeing the universe really was ownership enough. At the very least, it was worth a try.</p><p>He wondered, for a brief and hopeless second, what lay in store for him, <em>this</em> him. What would happen if his timeline did change. If he survived. Would he cease to exist? Quite possibly. It was like a joke, now that he thought about it, albeit a dry and mirthless one. He had died to avoid joining the Doctor and now he was willing to endure a much more permanent death to achieve the opposite. The other Master would have laughed. </p><p>When had that changed?</p><p>Martha turned the corner and he fled. Back into the shadows to await his final judgement. If, a few years ago, he'd been shown a picture of the man who would finally kill him, he would have nodded and accepted it. Perhaps that was why he chose this face. It felt right for it to end this way, for the Doctor to play a part. Because that's who the Doctor was to him, and it was who he'd become. </p><p>The only man who could kill him. And the only man who could save him.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I'd like to dedicate this to the friend who convinced me to write it and who inspired me to keep writing in general. I'm working on so many tensimm fics and I hope to finish and publish at least a few soon, as well as some other dw fics.</p><p>Also, god, I'm familiar with the struggle of writing for two main characters with the same pronouns but writing for two characters with the same name? Agony. Hope it wasn't too confusing. </p><p>And I hope you enjoyed this in general. I've been holding off posting for so long because everything I read here is so intimidatingly well written, but I've finally got this to a point where I'm reasonably happy with it. Thanks for reading.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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